


At His Fingertips

by kenjiru



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Romance, first fic on here wooo??, i don't know what to put lol, ushijima may be ooc i'm not sure this was written at 1am and i don't remember finishing it, ushiwaka hates his left hand sometimes but that's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:35:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenjiru/pseuds/kenjiru
Summary: Wakatoshi Ushijima has always had the world at his fingertips.
Relationships: Ushijima Wakatoshi/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	At His Fingertips

Wakatoshi Ushijima had an interesting affair with that left hand of his.

For starters, he learned to think of it as a misfortune or maybe a sin when he was just young. In every sense of the word, at that. To begin, he didn’t like the way the ink of pens would tattoo and etch its way onto his skin when he wrote; then smudge the page where he placed his hand after. Or how the graphite of pencils would drift along with his hand and stray from its intended place.

(He genuinely thought pens were an inconvenience to society until his mother had picked up some quick-drying ink cartridges, it was easy to read the frustration on the boy’s face.)

Yet he’d still have to live with the fact that pencil lead still smudged, no matter the resistance or even the disapproving sighs he would dish out. And it never failed to falter his mood even in the slightest.

Because despite the fact he was raised to be more logic-based than anything, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a time where he believed that if he told his hand to stop dragging on the page that it certainly would. He had his fair phase of believing the world was at his fingertips and the sun rose in the mornings at his command.

But even when he’d outgrown the childhood years where he’d had the ‘free god complex’ pass, nothing much actually changed. For suddenly, his cursed left hand and all the callouses that came with it was suddenly a _gift_. It was the subject of the people’s _praise_ and _big ideas_ , rather than the scowls and disapproving words from his overtly conventional mother. And these loving ballads of positivity were coming from more than just his father.

And suddenly, everyone in knew the name Wakatoshi Ushijima. And they knew everything that came along with such a treasured title.

The pain-in-the-ass spin that his hand would put on each and every spike of sheer horsepower, the aura of his that hung over the heads of opponents who would shy away from his unintentional glare that put volcanoes to shame. He was a force to be reckoned with if you ever so _dared_ put your pretty fingers up over that net when he was in the air.

Coach’s tape couldn’t even fix _that_ if you weren’t ready for it. Not one layer, and certainly not two.

But it didn’t matter, truthfully. The thoughtful words and pretty-sounding jargon were appreciated, sure. Yet at the end of the day, his mind was still his mind that always liked to play tricks with him. Always on the monkey bars and pulling on his last nerve.

His mind liked to make him ask himself questions, mostly ones doubting his credibility of holding such a benefit. Because if he thought about it — perhaps a tad bit harder than recommended — wasn’t this miraculous chance of turning out a lefty all just one big strike of _luck_?

Imagine if he had picked up the green crayon with his right hand that day. _Would I be where I am now?_ he’d think. _Would I still be known as the person I am today?_

And then he’d think a little less, running off of adrenaline inside of his one-track mind after a particularly good spike that sent the ball straight down toward the abused wood planks. _It doesn’t matter_ , he’d think again; this time around with less vigor and self-doubt. _This hand is my birthright_.

He never lied. He didn’t then, and he still doesn’t like to now — and he hadn’t been lying when he thought that. That hand was indeed his technical birthright, even if when he thought of it that way it was nothing more than a futile attempt at making himself believe he was some ‘chosen one’.

Wakatoshi Ushijima got lucky. That didn’t mean he hadn’t needed to work hard, it had just given him a push in the right direction. And if he didn’t think it was pointless and kind of silly, he would say ‘ _thank you_ ’ to his hand. For giving him the advantage, even if it was just a little one.

Albeit despite the glory, and the wins, and the name it had created for him; he still wasn’t the _biggest_ fan of his dominant hand. It was the same hand that was casually almost a tad _too_ rough, in situations where the extra passion wasn’t intended. One where the rough skin from years of dedication would make superfan kids in his jersey _jolt_ when they posed for pictures after games, before settling down into his hold again. One where he could just feel the contrast between his palm and your skin when he rested a hand on your back — just beneath your shirt — before falling asleep.

He wasn’t a big fan for a good deal of reasons, but he couldn’t do anything about it. ‘Cause, all in all, Wakatoshi lost the feeling of having the world at his fingertips from when he was just young — as a lot of people did as they matured — and he knew the sun didn’t rise because he told it to.

Though sometimes he liked his hand. Only a little.

A perfect example being when you kissed the top of his hand while it laid limp between your fingers, and when you drew shapes into his palm while you talked about your day as you laid on your probably-overpriced mattress.

(But fuck the mattress, it didn’t matter; his wallet never faced the misfortune of crying because the money came naturally with his career anyway)

And especially then, when you kneeled in front of him as he sat on a bench in the arena and you rolled tape around two of his fingers.

No matter if you’d known it or not, you were playing fixer-upper to the closest thing to a war tank that wasn’t _actually_ a war tank. You held one of Japan’s greatest weapons — the best in his arsenal — in your own two palms. It had nearly destroyed dreams, fueled some, won him battles, taken him straight to the pro leagues; and you held it with a firm grip as you bit the fabric with your teeth to cut it. Carelessly, loosely, comfortably.

You just sat in front of him, lecturing him about the importance of self-care and something else that went through one ear and out the other. Like, who cared about the power that hand had? Let alone the arm attached to it. But he was more focused on the nostalgia that flooded back through that mess of a mind of his.

“Wakatoshi,” you snapped in front of his face, finger flicking your palm and his eyes widened a fraction. “—listen to me, you need to be more aware.”

“I will,” he promised quicker than you’d expected him to, safely assuming he was lost in whatever thought. “Sorry.”

The déjà vu that hit him like a truck hadn’t been anything recent, more something he could (surprisingly) remember from years prior; considering the fact that his memory could be compared to that of a goldfish unless it involved you and important events. But he still felt it, nonetheless. Shitty memory or not. The refreshing familiarity.

And when your little kisses of silent appreciation trailed from the very end of his fingers and traveled onward from there, something somewhere in the ever-so-slowly turning gears of his head clicked; and he’d understood what was so familiar about you sitting in front of him, doing what you did.

Wakatoshi Ushijima _did_ have the world at his fingertips, again. And that just so happened to be you.

**Author's Note:**

> hi so this was discovered in my google docs and i just thought; why not make it my first ao3 post to test the waters ?? anyway hope this wasn't that bad <3


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